


if you talk enough sense (you lose your mind)

by PaddyWack



Series: King of Men [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:43:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9942452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaddyWack/pseuds/PaddyWack
Summary: Altair hates being at court.He hates the people, the masques, the parties, the late boisterous nights and the endless gambling. He despises the saccharine compliments and haughty manners of the ambitious, the sniveling of the desperate. But most of all, he hates that there is not one moment of peace, not a second a man can have to himself, without someone else’s sneaky little spy listening for something, anything, to report back to their master for a halfpenny.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I will say that I am not an expert on medieval royal courts, nor the proper chain of command therein. I thoroughly enjoy reading historical fiction, 1400-1600 centric, where I imagine this short ficlet to take place. I have naturally taken certain writing liberties with titles and duties for my own entertainment, and I hope you find them enjoyable as well. 
> 
> A few disclaimers: 'Davengard' is a made up place, while all other places mentioned are/were existing in England. I glean much of my court comparison and inspiration from Queen Elizabeth I's reign, so you may notice similarities there if you are familiar with her rule. As yet, there is no continuation for this, I just wanted to dabble a bit and see how it was received. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 _'And I'll use you as a warning sign_  
_That if you talk enough sense, then you'll lose your mind_  
_And I'll use you as focal point_  
_So I don’t lose sight of what I want_  
_And I've moved further than I thought I could_  
_But I miss you more than I thought I would.'_

_-i-_

 

Altair hates being at court.

 

He hates the people, the masques, the parties, the late boisterous nights and the endless gambling. He despises the saccharine compliments and haughty manners of the ambitious, the sniveling of the desperate. But most of all, he hates that there is not one moment of peace, not a second a man can have to himself, without someone else’s sneaky little spy listening for something, anything, to report back to their master for a halfpenny.

 

The hall behind Altair is silent, save for the quiet panting of a kitchen boy peeking from behind a pillar. Altair pinches the bridge of his nose and swallows an irritated growl. Without turning, he addresses the child with as much restraint on his temper as he can presently manage.

 

“You may tell your beloved Lord Secretary that I am not here to cause trouble.” He hears the boy catch his breath at being caught. “I was summoned here by the King, and I will not tolerate Warren’s little rat scuffling along behind me during my stay. Understood?”

 

He tilts his head expectantly, nodding once when a feeble, trembling voice responds with an agreeable “yes, sir”, and listens impatiently as the urchin beats a hasty retreat back down the hall.

 

Altair sighs and resumes his walk back to the rooms he had been permitted for his stay at court. The kitchen boy may have disappeared, but it would be naïve to think there aren’t others hanging about to do the job in his stead. Lord Warren, Secretary of State and chief adviser to the King, is famously known for having one of the largest functioning spy networks in existence. No one does anything without Warren knowing about it first.

 

The guards nod and allow Altair through to his rooms. Inside, it is blessedly quiet in the low light of the wax candles, making the rooms feel almost welcoming were they not inside Whitehall palace. Or any royal palace, for that matter. Altair feels a pang of longing for his own home at Davengard, riding the coast of Lincolnshire and far enough away from London as to almost be considered a foreign country.

 

“Sir,” Altair blinks in mild surprise as a young man steps seemingly from the very shadows, a folded note in his hand. Quickly, he tries to school his expression back into indifference, but he isn’t quick enough and the young man, his squire, flashes a smug grin at having caught his master unaware, and grins even wider at the eye roll he receives for his impudence. 

 

“What is it, Desmond?”

 

“A note came while you were out.” Altair takes the folded paper. It’s unsealed and without signature. “They didn’t say who it was from.”

 

Altair hums and tucks it into the leather bracer on his arm, intending to read it in the bedchamber. He needn’t worry about Desmond reading the note and reporting it since the young squire’s loyalty remains unquestioningly in Altair’s keeping. However, he does prefer to keep certain things private. He doesn’t need to be told who the note is from. He already knows, and he knows that it can wait a little longer to be addressed.

 

“Have you eaten?” he asks, moving toward the table near the edge of the room and taking a seat in the captain’s chair. “You weren’t at dinner.”

 

Desmond shakes his head and stands behind a chair on Altair’s right. “I thought you might have letters delivered. I wanted to be here to receive them.”

 

“That wasn’t necessary.” He gestures for Desmond to sit and calls for a small dinner to be brought to his rooms. “If anybody were interested in the contents of my letters, I can assure you that before they have even reached your hand they have been opened, copied, and resealed.” The look of contempt on Desmond’s faces makes him huff a slight chuckle. “That’s the way of it here, Desmond. That’s Lord Warren’s England.”

 

“It’s meant to be King Malik’s England, not some upstart’s version of it.”

 

Altair gives him a sharp look and Desmond looks down at the table, murmuring an apology. “Careful how you speak in this court. You never know who is listening and you don’t want to make the wrong enemies. Our lives are cutthroat enough, don’t you think?” He says the last bit a little teasingly, softening the blow of the reprimand. Desmond is only voicing what half of England is thinking, and Altair can’t really blame him for the sentiment considering his own opinions run parallel and even further still.

 

“At any rate, you missed an eventful meal,” Altair says at length, diverting the conversation into safer territory. Being a squire, Desmond isn’t necessarily permitted the liberties of speaking his mind to his master, but while he is considered a servant, he also has the unfortunate luck of being Altair’s youngest brother, and therefore under Altair’s complete protection while away from Davengard. Complaining about the state of England’s ruling is definitely a topic better left unsaid within these walls.

 

Desmond looks up curiously, though a touch bored. Like his brother, he isn’t much for court life.

 

Altair smirks. “Our dear uncle had the ear of the council about reinforcing the navy with more ships and experienced men.” Desmond’s face lights up with renewed interest. “Apparently there was a sighting last month of a strange ship with red sails. They say it was too swift for our own to catch, and that it disappeared without a trace.”

 

“You think it was him?”

 

“Of course,” Altair snorts. “Grandfather Edward loves to make a spectacle of himself, and Uncle Haytham is biting at the bit wanting to chase him down. If there truly was a sighting, Haytham is going to do whatever it takes to get the backing for an arrest.”

 

“I know Edward is wrong for disserting, but it still doesn’t feel right to treat him as a traitor. He’s family.”

 

Altair shrugs, in complete agreement. “Edward had his reasons. Eventually, Haytham will run out of money and influence and leave his father alone to wander the seas as he likes. The council already look at him like a red-faced child throwing a tantrum when they deny him funds for chasing all over the North Sea.”

 

Desmond chuckles and sits back as the servants bring in their food. “Was he very angry?”

 

Again, Altair gives a careless shrug at the memory of his uncle, furious and tight lipped at the idea of his renegade father mockingly sailing near the coast of London begging for a chase. “I think it would destroy his pride to be any less dignified than the title of Duke of York permits.” He pours himself a mug of warm ale and grins around the rim at Desmond. “Connor might have mentioned something about trying a hand at sailing, though, in front of them all.”

 

Desmond tips his head back and laughs at the cheekiness of their cousin hinting at following his grandfather into pleasurable exile just to get a rise out of Haytham. “I regret my decision of staying behind. I would’ve given my purse to watch that conversation playing out.”

 

Altair chuckles and takes a deep swallow of the ale, fighting a grimace at the watery bitterness of the London brew. Lincolnshire’s own flavor is much heartier and pleasant to the taste. He nurses the mug as Desmond tucks into the roasted lamb and various cooked vegetables brought from the kitchens, informing him of those in attendance at dinner and bringing him up to date on the latest court gossip, of which he does so derisively and out of a sense of duty if nothing else.

 

The plates are cleared and taken away once Desmond has his fill and Altair polishes off the last of the ale. They move toward the fireplace and Altair leans against the warmed brick, letting his eyes wander toward the darkened window were only a sliver of the moon is visible behind the black clouds. There are no stars.

 

“You’re going to see him, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question and Desmond looks at him with a concerned frown as he waits for an answer. “That’s what the note is about. Isn’t it?”

 

Altair fingers his bracer for a moment before pulling the wrinkled note out and unfolding it. It’s brief and to the point, and leaves no room for argument. When he looks up again, Desmond is frowning harder and chewing agitatedly on the pad of his thumb.

 

“Are you forgiven? Is that why he summoned you here? If he had wanted you sentenced to death it would have been done already. Isn’t that true? What does he want with you then?”

 

The barrage of questions grate on Altair’s patience. The situation is tense, he knows, but giving into panic does nothing but make a person suffer twice. He holds the note out for Desmond wordlessly and waits as he reads the single sentence on the page. When he finishes, Desmond looks grim but slightly relieved.

 

“Well,” he manages. “It’s not as bad as I thought.”

 

 _If your arrogance allows it, I would speak with you on the matter of your betrayal._ A taunt and a demand all in one brief stab, written in the King’s own hand. Even when they were children, Altair can remember Malik preferring blunt insults and sarcasm to the flowery language of royalty. It is somewhat reassuring to see that he hasn’t changed much, at least in that respect.

 

“No,” Altair agrees wryly. “We shall see what mood he is in before I put money on walking out of here alive, however.”

 

“He hasn’t done anything to Ezio. That has to count for something.”

 

They both take a moment to feel grateful their brother Ezio has managed to survive at court without anything unfortunate happening these last few years. Indeed, it must mean Malik’s rage is reserved solely for Altair alone and does not extend to those close enough to hurt him. If Ezio can stay in attendance on the King as a gentleman of the bedchamber (though admittedly pushed to the outskirts since Altair left), then perhaps Desmond is right and Altair truly has been summoned for forgiveness.

 

“In any case, I need to go to him before he sends out the guards for me.” Desmond looks anxious at the idea and Altair smirks and chucks him on the chin on his way towards the door. “You look like a worried maiden, Desmond. If you’re not careful people will mistake you for one of the royal courtesans begging their lover to warm her bed for one more night.”

 

He hears his brother sputter in embarrassment and doesn’t need to look to know Desmond is flushed bright red in furious indignation. He chuckles and leaves the chamber almost silently, turning toward the long and silent passage leading toward the King’s rooms.

 

_-ii-_

 

The palace is silent as death during this hour, the witching hour, and Altair listens to the sound of his own breathing in the quiet. He had felt exhausted talking with Desmond and had wished to simply retire for the night, even with Malik’s command waiting in his bracer. It had been a long ride to court, and an even longer evening listening to courtiers speaking out the sides of their mouths and his allies on the council filling him in on what’s happened in his absence. The promise of sleep had seemed like utter bliss.

 

Now, though, he feels himself nearly buzzing with anticipation at seeing Malik again. It has been so long. He knows the King’s fury will be a sight to behold, and whatever punishment he sees fit to dish out will be justly wrought, yet Altair is excited for the passion to blaze behind those dark almond eyes, and the anger to whip him like a hound come to heel.  

 

It was wrong to abandon the King before, he knows that. At the time it had seemed like the right decision for Altair’s failure in protecting the royal family. Because of his shortcomings, Kadar, the King’s brother and the heir presumptive, had nearly died from fatal poisoning. A dish meant for Malik, but his dislike for sugared plums had sent the sweets to Kadar’s plate instead, and had almost been the boy’s death sentence.

 

Altair was responsible for not catching the plot. He was the King’s right hand man, his closest companion and most trusted friend. He had failed in his duty. He had failed Malik. All of London seemed to blame him for almost letting their beloved prince die. Everyone, that is, except Malik. The King ignored claims that Altair was the one who attempted to poison him, his only concern was for Kadar and his health. Altair remembers how the King shut himself away in a solitary fury to nurse Kadar on his own.

 

It was then, in the King’s absence, that Altair left for the north. His shame and his guilt had been crushing, he could not bring himself to face Malik in his failure.  He couldn’t look at Kadar’s feeble breathing and not blame himself for the prince’s imminent death. Altair may not have fed the poison into the dessert, but he felt just as responsible and guilty of the charge as if he did.

 

Instead of enduring the shame, he threw himself into battle. He went on campaign after campaign on the nation’s borders under the King’s banner, and sometimes even under his own. He fought for years seeking out the suffering and pain of fatal wounds that served as some kind of penance for his sins against the crown. It was his punishment, and nothing less of what he deserved. He had been unable to keep Malik and Kadar safe while at their side, at least he could keep England’s borders safe while at hers. At least he could prevent a war.

 

He would be out there still, putting enemy after enemy to the sword, were it not for a lucky blade piercing his armor straight through the shoulder and out the back in one clean strike. The resulting blood loss and raging fever had him knocking at Death’s door as his men had him carted back to Davengard and the healers. He had been away for three years, and the thought of dying in his own castle, in his own bed, had been pleasant enough to calm him into fits of fever induced sleep.

 

But, of course, he was not meant to have it so easily. He was not meant to pass from this life without first facing Malik. He healed behind Davengard’s walls, and as soon as the King heard he was back from campaign, a messenger was sent to summon him to court without any preamble.

 

Many things had changed since Altair left. He had heard about it even while on the borders – how Malik had withdrawn from the council, leaving many and nearly all of the state’s decisions in the hands of Lord Secretary Warren. Indeed, the rumour was that Lord Warren is running England in all but name now, and that the King cannot be bothered with it anymore.

 

Altair had a hard time believing the gossip at first, but since his return to court he was finding it difficult _not_ to believe the rumours. Things were indeed different. It made his reunion with the King that much more anticipated and frightening. Just how much had the King changed?

 

He stands before the doors to Malik’s presence chamber for a long moment, glaring at the floor and trying to quell the guilt choking his throat and the shame burning through his blood, contemplating on just how he should proceed with this meeting. He nearly trembles with impatience to see the man he had once considered his closest companion – sometimes even more than that under the promise of darkness.

 

The guards shift uncomfortably at his stillness, and one clears his throat pointedly. Finally, Altair gives a curt nod and strides through when they swing open the doors. The King is there before the fire, slumped somewhat comfortably in a cushioned chair in the warm glow. One knee is bent, the other booted foot flung out toward the flames. He rests his head on a fist propped up on the arm of the chair, and when Altair enters the room only his eyes move to take him in from his chair. Silently, Malik flicks his fingers to clear the few companions from the room.

 

As they leave, Malik turns his gaze back to the flames and Altair finds himself unable to move, rooted to the floor. His chest aches with a familiar, painful, yearning as his eyes scan Malik’s profile. He looks older, Altair notices, surprised by the difference. He looks haggard and angry, and though his stance suggests he’s lazily disinterested in everything but the fire, the harder Altair looks at him, the more Malik looks like a bird of prey, still as stone and listening to every little sound in the room as he waits for the perfect moment to strike. The feeling has Altair’s nerves on edge, and he has the uncomfortable suspicion Malik is intently listening to the sound of his pulse ratcheting higher at the sense of danger.

 

The edge of Malik’s mouth quirks up in a smirk that is as sharp as a knife, and Altair’s eyes jump to meet the King’s unflinching gaze once more. Altair bites his tongue and kneels with his arm crossed over his chest in fealty. “My Lord,” he says, quiet and rough.

 

Malik snorts dismissively from his seat. Altair remains kneeling on the floor and waits for the King’s permission to stand. “Pathetic is a good look for you, Altair,” he says at length. “Why don’t you get on both knees and lick the floor?”

 

Altair’s face burns with outrage at the ridiculous suggestion. He glares at the floor, wondering if he could possibly walk away with his head still attached if he somehow refuses the order. At his hesitation, Malik suddenly gets to his feet and crosses the room in three quick strides. His knees are level with Altair’s nose before he even has time to blink.

 

 “I said lick the floor, Altair.”

 

Affronted, Altair twitches back just the barest inch at the King’s closeness. He wants to snap a retort, call Malik out for acting like a spoiled child still in the nursery, but he does not allow himself the pleasure because he knows that this is only fair. Altair deserves worse than this humiliation, and then some. He convinces himself, with some difficulty, that he can swallow his pride for now and give Malik this small victory.

 

He grinds his teeth and lowers himself to both knees. Unbidden, he feels his body start to respond excitedly at the familiar position he finds himself in, even though the context is far different from the last time the two of them were like this. Malik’s hands are fists at his sides and bleached white with fury as Altair bends forward, intending to drop on all fours and lower his face to his boots.

 

“Get up.”

 

The command cracks like a whip and is just as unexpected. Altair freezes and flicks his eyes up, taking in Malik’s glare and twisted mouth.

 

“Get up,” Malik says again, and this time Altair does so. He stands before the King with a carefully blank expression as Malik’s fury builds behind his glittering eyes. His anger is so tangible Altair is amazed he is not being choked by it as if it were a live beast with claws slowly tightening around his traitorous throat. Malik’s dark eyes are nearly black with anger as they stare back at Altair, daring him to drop his gaze to the floor like a coward.

 

After a long moment, Altair does just that, unable to withstand the resentment glowing there like hot embers. Immediately Malik’s hand shoots up and grabs his face in a punishing hold, jerking his eyes back up and commanding his full attention.

 

“You left me behind,” Malik growls. “You left without any warning, and you left me exposed at my most vulnerable moment.”

 

“It was my fault – “

 

“Indeed,” Malik cuts him off, gripping his jaw harder with a slight shake. “It was indeed your fault. I was not yet secure on my throne, there were plots left and right on mine and Kadar’s lives, and the court was divided. You were meant to keep us safe – not abandon your post the moment someone shook your resolve.”

 

Altair grinds his teeth and stays completely still in the King’s unrelenting hold. He wants to defend himself and plead his case, but then he knows it would be pointless against Malik’s rage. He had been wrong to leave. He should have stayed and protected Malik, protected Kadar, he should have stayed and protected England.

 

There are no excuses for his cowardice.

 

“You were gone.” Suddenly, Malik doesn’t sound as angry as before. His eyes still burn, but they dull to an exhausted look of hopeless grief. “How could I keep them at bay with you gone?”

 

The question is so quiet it might as well have been a figment of Altair’s imagination. Yet, he had heard it, he knows he had heard it, and Malik is glaring at him as he remains silent in the face of such a raw confession.

 

“Malik…”

 

Finally, Altair is released as Malik turns away from him and returns to the stuffed chair by the fire. Rather than take a seat, Altair sees the King’s knuckles protrude sharply against the skin as he holds the top of the chair in his strong hands, flames dancing shadows against his face and turning his eyes to cold flint.

 

It’s difficult to breathe for all the things clogging his throat, and Altair wants to yell and punch a wall for the mess of emotion swirling in his head. It’s impossible to imagine how they can ever begin to go back to what they were before, even though that is what he most desires.

 

“The Lord Secretary has all but thrown me down. He has many supporters here and I have very few. When you left, much of my support went with you.” His tone is accusing, and Altair imagines what he truly means is that in truth all of his support disappeared. “Kadar needed me,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t abandon him like you did. I stayed by his side until he was well again, but by then it was too late. Warren was calling the shots, he had replaced my men and sent them home. I was all but a prisoner on the throne. I was without protection.”

 

Altair dredges up the will to take a few steps closer, nearing Malik’s side. “I should never have left,” he says, forcing it out in a voice strangled with guilt and anger. “It was a mistake that I regret every day.”

 

Malik nods thoughtfully, eyeing Altair keenly without turning his head to face him. “As you should.”

 

“What can I do?” Altair fights the urge to reach out and touch, to grab Malik and shake him, to beg for forgiveness and for a second chance. “How can I protect you?”

 

There is a long moment of silence between them in which Altair feels himself slowly slipping into madness. Malik only watches him like a hawk, silent and considering. Finally, he says simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to do, “You can help me take back my kingdom.”

 

And, really, how can Altair possibly turn away a second time?


End file.
